by Speer, Flora
Cast Love Aside
Flora Speer
Smashwords Edition
Published by Flora Speer At Smashwords
Copyright © 2014 by Flora Speer
Cover design
Smashwords Edition, License Note:
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
Windsor, England
A.D. 1116
It was, Magnus thought, the kind of secret meeting that ought to have taken place at midnight, in some mysterious, heavily guarded location, with thunder and lightening attending his arrival at the designated spot. Given the terse instructions scrawled on the parchment a squire had handed to him that morning, he found it odd to be waiting all alone in a sun-dappled clearing in a forest near Windsor Castle on a balmy late May morning. The weather and the setting did not fit the occasion as he understood it from the message.
Odder still was the sensation of cold that stroked along his spine, like a skeletal finger presaging disaster. Despite the warm day and the sweet fragrance of unseen flowers drifting on the gentle breeze, Magnus thought of cold, clammy darkness, of rank odors and foul, constantly dripping water.
He shivered as the back of his neck began to prickle. It had been so long since he’d felt that particular frisson of unease that he hadn’t recognized it at once. He knew what it was now, and every instinct warned him to flee. He’d regret it if he didn’t. He couldn’t count all the times during his boyhood at Ashendown when he had regretted not obeying that unwelcome portent.
Still, he didn’t leave the clearing. The man who had summoned him was not a lord to be trifled with. The difference in their stations in life was so great that he had wondered why Royce of Wortham had singled him out. A rustling in the woodland made him turn as Royce and two younger men rode into the clearing.
“Good day to you, Sir Magnus.” Royce pulled off his leather gauntlet and leaned from his saddle to clasp Magnus’s hand. His smile was friendly, his face open and guileless.
“My lord.” Magnus took the proffered hand in a firm grip, but he said no more than those two, deliberately clipped words. He had discovered long ago that whenever he didn’t know what was happening the best reaction was silence. He would learn soon enough what he wanted to know. Others were always eager to talk and to explain themselves. So he waited, allowing his gaze to move from Royce to his two companions.
“I believe you know Sir Braedon,” Royce said, indicating the dark-haired man at his right, who lifted a gloved hand in acknowledgement and grinned at Magnus.
Magnus nodded, but did not return the smile. Everyone at court knew Braedon was a bastard, his father unknown, his elevation to knighthood uncertain until the autumn just past, when King Henry himself had decided to reward the loyal squire for bravery in service to the crown. Magnus couldn’t understand how a man without a family history could be so lighthearted. His own position in the world wasn’t much better than Braedon’s, but at least he knew who his parents had been and that they were lawfully wed long before he was conceived.
“This is Sir William, captain of my men-at-arms,” Royce said, nodding toward the other man who rode with him.
In contrast to Braedon’s striking good looks, William was nondescript in appearance, of medium size with light brown hair, a man who could pass unnoticed almost anywhere. At that thought, and recalling whispers he’d heard about the baron of Wortham, Magnus began to wonder if the present meeting had anything to do with spying. Another cold shiver went up his back at the possibility, and that was very odd, indeed. With a start Magnus realized that Royce was speaking to him and he had missed the first few sentences.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. Did you say an English agent has been captured by the French?”
“Yes.” Royce did not complain about Magnus’s inattention, but regarded him with remarkable seriousness, as if he believed the information he was about to impart would be of vital significance to the younger man. “It happened last autumn. An attempt was made to help the man, but the would-be rescuers were themselves caught and killed.”
Royce stopped talking. No one else spoke. The quiet of the forest was broken only by the sweet trill of a bird and by the rustling of leaves as a squirrel ran up a nearby tree.
Magnus waited, expecting something more. Still Royce said nothing, and Magnus began to realize that the baron was using the same patient method on him that Magnus so often employed on others. They could sit in silence forever if he did not say something. After what he’d just heard, a few questions did seem to be in order.
“Why have you summoned me here to tell me this?” Magnus asked.
“Because,” Royce answered, “the captured spy is Desmond of Ashendown.”
Silence fell again as Magnus tried to appear unmoved by the news while he wondered what in the name of all the devils in Hades Desmond was up to now. At least he knew why he’d been experiencing those strange chills and intimations of darkness and damp over the last hour. Des must be in mortal danger.
“I see,” he finally said, knowing some response was expected of him and unable to think of anything else to say.
“No, you do not see,” Royce contradicted him, an edge of steel sharpening his voice. “Desmond has come to the attention of King Louis of France.”
“I suppose Louis has demanded a large ransom?” Magnus asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. It must be a matter of ransom. He would not permit himself to consider any other possibility. The fate usually meted out to a captured spy did not bear thinking about. “Unfortunately, I possess nothing that I could sell or trade to raise a ransom, for I refuse to give up my sword, my armor, or my horse. If King Henry wants Desmond back, he will have to ransom his own spy.”
“My God, man!” William exclaimed. “How can you be so callous about your own brother?”
“Can wailing or gnashing my teeth help him?” Magnus asked with cold logic.
“I do understand the poverty of a household knight,” Royce said, his quiet words putting an end to William’s brief outburst. “I cannot fault any man for refusing to give up the knightly equipment by which he earns his keep. There is something else you can do for Desmond, if you will.”
“Tell me what it is.” Magnus spoke in quick, clipped fashion, making the words into an order. He knew a certain grim satisfaction when he saw Royce’s eyebrows go up in surprise at being spoken to that way.
“I asked you to meet us here today,” Royce said, “because I’ve been told that you make a habit of using your mind rather than erupting into undisciplined emotion as so many young knights are prone to do.”
“I am not undisciplined!” William exclaimed. “I’m concerned about an honest man who is being mistreated.”
“An honest spy?” Magnus repeated, staring at him. “If you think that, you are an innocent. I, on the other hand, am absolutely certain that Desmond set about his work for King Henry with no illusions as to the honesty of his occupation, or to what the consequences would be if he were captured. Desmond has never cared overmuch for honesty.”
“Even so,” Royce said, “we cannot allow him to be tortured and executed. I assure you, King Henry is appalled at the prospect.”
“No doubt, he’s also appalled to think of the secrets Desmond may reveal under torture,” Magnus said coldly.
““Suppose we were to capture a French agent,” William suggested. “We cou
ld then make a counter-offer of the agent in exchange for Desmond.”
“It will have to be a very important French agent,” Braedon said. He hadn’t spoken before, though he’d been sitting forward in his saddle, leaning on the pommel while he listened intently to every word. He’d had the good sense to keep his mouth shut during the altercation between Magnus and William, a fact that raised him in Magnus’s estimation.
“I do know of an agent whose capture ought to force King Louis to consider trading Desmond.” Royce sounded as if he’d just thought of the idea. “He’s presently living in a manor house on the seacoast near Calais. As it happens, my late wife and I visited Manoir Sainte Inge while its previous lord was still alive. The house sits on a promontory that juts out into the sea. Beaches on either side of the promontory could offer a landing site for a small boat. Once our man is in custody, he can be transferred to a larger ship and smuggled across the Narrow Sea to England with little difficulty. Yes, that scheme could work.”
“First, we have to capture him,” Magnus said, intrigued by the project despite his initial reluctance to become involved. “If he’s so important to King Louis, he must be well guarded. What is the man’s name?”
“Erland, the count of Morvan,” Royce said. “My old friend, Paul de Sainte Inge, was his brother. After Paul and his wife died, King Louis made Erland guardian of their children. Erland moved into the manor, claiming he didn’t want to disrupt the children’s lives, but he’s now using Manoir Sainte Inge as his headquarters.”
“Do you mean there are children living in the house we are to invade and perhaps fight our way out of?” Magnus demanded. “I will not be a party to harming infants.”
“My informant reports that the children are no longer in residence. Only Erland and a small contingent of men-at-arms are at the manor. I have a rough plan of the house, smuggled to me by my man in Erland’s household.” Royce looked more closely at Magnus. “Are you willing to join us?”
“I am,” Magnus answered. A mere instant later he regretted his hasty response. It was clear to him that Royce intended his two companions to be part of the force sent to capture Erland. Magnus wasn’t certain either man would be a dependable accomplice. “You will be leading us, of course,” he added to Royce.
“Not I,” Royce said. “King Henry has ordered me to remain in England, to prepare a suitable place for Count Erland while he resides with us”
The satisfied look on Royce’s face confirmed what Magnus suspected. He had been duped.
“You’ve been playing with me,” he accused the baron. “I see it clearly now. The idea to capture a French agent was yours, not William’s. Before this meeting ever began, the decisions were made, the arrangements were set, and you had obtained King Henry’s consent to them.”
“But isn’t it a splendid scheme?” Royce asked with a smile.
“Who is to lead your group of secret agents?” Magnus demanded, praying it wouldn’t be William, though he doubted if the overly cheerful Braedon would be much of an improvement over the emotional man-at-arms.
“You are to be the leader,” said Royce, still smiling the smile that hid a multitude of secrets he would most likely never reveal. “Who better than the man who must want his brother freed?”
“Damnation,” Magnus muttered between his teeth. Only rigid self-discipline enabled him to cut off the rest of his angry response before the torrent of bitter words residing in his heart had a chance to leave his tongue. He’d thought himself free of Desmond, but once again he’d been drawn into something he’d rather not be part of, a game originally instigated by his feckless twin. Past experience warned him that he was going to need all of the wits that Royce had praised if he hoped to reach the end of the assignment alive.
When the next icy chill crept along his spine he did not consider it the least bit strange. He did wonder, though, what other important information had been withheld from him.
Chapter 1
Manoir Sainte Inge.
The Coast of France near Calais
June, A.D.1116
He was the biggest man that Lilianne had ever seen. Possibly, he was also the quietest man she would ever encounter. He stepped silently through the narrow arch that led to the staircase, blocking her way before she even realized he was there. She couldn't see him distinctly. His dark clothes covered him completely, making him appear to be part of the shadows. She did see the broadsword he held ready to use. Even there in the gloomy upstairs corridor enough light existed to glint off the edge of the long steel blade.
Her natural reaction to the sight of a menacing stranger should have been a loud scream. He'd likely slaughter her before she had a chance to make much noise, but at least someone would hear her warning.
But would anyone hear her? The manor house was oddly quiet. How had an unknown man sneaked past the guards to penetrate to the upper level of the house, where the private rooms were? Was he one of the men who came to visit her uncle late at night, the men whose existence he refused to acknowledge when Lilianne confronted him about them?
The stranger said nothing for a moment. He stared at her with grim attention, as if she was the last person he expected to meet, and his alert posture coupled with his perfect stillness told her that he was as startled as she was.
Lilianne tilted her chin to look up at him. It was a novel sensation for her, having to look up at a man. She was so tall that most men were her height, or shorter.
She wished the stone-walled corridor were better lit. A single flambeau stuck into one of the empty wall sconces would have helped. All she could see of the man above the collar of his tunic was a pale square of face, dark brows, and dark hair. She caught her breath as she became aware of a tense, savage quality in him that went well beyond the usual careless male violence with which she was familiar. This man didn't need a weapon to make him dangerous. She had to escape from him and raise the alarm as quickly as possible.
Cautiously, she placed one foot behind her, preparing to break away from him. She hadn't taken the first step before the hand that wasn't holding his sword clamped down hard on her wrist.
“Not a word,” he warned her in a rough whisper. “Don’t make a sound and don’t attempt to escape from me, or I'll be forced to knock you senseless.”
Lilianne nodded to indicate compliance with his command. She hoped he'd see the quick, nervous motion in the dim light.
“I want an empty room that's nearby.” He did not release his grip on her wrist while he spoke again in the same low, harsh tone. “Don't say anything, just nod your head toward it.”
Silently, she indicated the room from which she had just come.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
With her free hand Lilianne unlatched the door. The stranger pushed her inside before she collected her thoughts enough to remember that she was showing him into her bedchamber.
He wasn't overly rough in his handling of her, just very firm about what he was doing. Encouraged by the lack of immediate brutality on his part, some of her initial fear of him began to seep away. Still, caution remained. Four years of living in the same household with Uncle Erland had taught her how quickly a man's temper could change.
Rubbing the wrist the stranger had been holding, she whirled to face him. He stood with his back against the door, a position that left her with no place to go. The room wasn't large and with him in it, there seemed to be even less space for her to move, certainly not enough space for her to back away from him as she wanted to do. The single window was too small for her to squeeze through it and jump. Reluctantly, she gave up the notion of escape. She stayed near the door, scarcely a step away from him, only a few paces from her bed, and intensely aware of how wrong it was to allow any man into her private chamber.
“Who are you?” he demanded, still whispering.
“Oh, am I permitted to speak now?” she asked in well justified annoyance.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Will anyone hear me if
I scream? Just a short time ago,” she said, “the men in the hall were drinking and making their usual late evening noises. Now they are quiet. Why is that?”
“Drugged wine.”
“Have you killed them?”
“No.” He sounded insulted by the suggestion.
“Do you ever speak more than three or four words at a time?” she asked.
“Occasionally.” One corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to smile.
Lilianne counted the tiny movement as encouraging. Upon noticing the peculiar silence from the hall below, she had left her room to investigate, which was why she’d been in the corridor. In her haste she had left the oil lamp burning on a table near the bed, and by its soft glow she examined the stranger's face and form.
He was wonderfully tall, actually several inches taller than she. His black hair was trimmed short over his brow in the blunt style worn by most fighting men. In complement to the straight, uncompromising line of his hair, his face was hard and bleak, with high cheekbones apparently carved out of solid rock and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. The grey eyes glaring out of that stony face reminded Lilianne of the winter sea just before a storm, with impending turbulence barely contained beneath a deceptively quiet surface.
The shoulders under his tunic were so broad that she guessed the rest of him was equally strong and well muscled. His hands were large, the long, tapered fingers holding his sword as easily as if it were a child's toy.
“Who are you?” he said again.
“Lilianne de Sainte Inge,” she responded. “Who are you?”
“Magnus.” He bit out the single word as if it pained him to utter it.
“You are well named, Magnus.” She managed to produce a tremulous smile.
To her astonishment, he smiled back at her, an incredibly beautiful smile that rocked her down to her toes. All the harsh planes of his face softened, the bitter lines vanishing, to be replaced by warmth and kindness, and by a gentle humor that warmed Lilianne's lonely heart.
